


Long Time Coming

by SylvanWitch



Series: Biker 'Verse [4]
Category: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Apocalyptic crossover of doom, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean made a (filthy) promise to Jax that he intends to keep.  Timestamp for <i>Pagans, Outlaws, and Bandidos, Oh My!<i> and follows the events of that story.</i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Time Coming

The sky is a convalescent blue, as if the planet, long a three-packs-a-day smoker, has finally finished the ordeal of quitting.

 

They’re standing four feet apart in front of the Impala, staring hard at each other and at nothing else.  If anyone’s around to watch the showdown, the two men don’t know it.

 

Privacy is hard to come by in the post-apocalypse, guard towers, sniper’s nests, and manned perimeters making it almost impossible to be alone in the once-again-great outdoors.

 

Almost.

 

Being king of the world has its advantages, though, and Jax Teller is nothing if not adept at using every angle he’s got.

 

Plus, they’re an unlikely pair to be compromised by the enemy—Dean, the guy who killed the devil, and Jax, the man God gave the world over to after everyone else had finished fucking it up.

 

So here they are, after a few meaningful words had been exchanged with Opie, who had, in turn, taken it to Blue, the man commanding the paramilitary outfit they’ve come to call Charming’s Army.

 

“Alone at last,” Dean drawls in that way he has of insinuating everything without saying much of anything at all.

 

Jax nods, a tight motion, tension in his jawline.

 

“You up for this?”Jax asks at last, challenge in his voice.  The taunting is belied by his eyes, though, which Dean watches as they follow the line of his inseam to the obvious evidence of his ability to follow through on a promise.

 

 _I’m going to fuck you over the hood of the Impala_ , Dean had said, words already a little blurry at the edges for the pre-op sedative. _Out where God and everybody can see_.

 

Maybe God is watching.  Maybe not.  Dean’s not here to contemplate theology.

 

“Oh, I’m up,” Dean says, blowing innuendo out of the water with a cupping gesture around the hard bulge behind the denim fly.

 

Jax snorts and puts his hands out to his sides, palms forward.  _Your move_ , the gesture says.  _Bring it on_.

 

“Lose the cut.”

 

With a lazy smile, Jax shrugs out of the leather and tosses it with deceptive carelessness onto the windshield.

 

“Shirt.”

 

“It’s your show,” Jax says, a verbal shrug.  But there’s another note there, too, excitement, maybe, and an attractive uncertainty that makes Dean have to take a steadying breath.

 

Hands that have killed men, been coated in blood, held parts of Dean together while he shivered out his final breaths, work the hem of the simple white tee-shirt slowly up his belly, revealing inch by pale inch the lean muscle and numbered ribs.

 

It’s not a strip tease.  That implies Dean won’t get what he’s there for.  It’s an assault.  Jax’s smile slides into something feral and dark, and Dean has to concentrate on calibers and pounds of finger pressure to keep from shifting in place like a little kid waiting in line for the bathroom.

 

As if sensing Dean’s unspoken urgency, Jax abandons coyness and tears the shirt off over his head, tossing it aside.  Half naked, hands back in the _What now?_ position, Jax’s eyes are bright with knowing what comes next.

  
He’s going to make Dean say it.

 

“Turn around.”  It’s an order, but it comes low and rough, like Dean regularly gargles broken glass, and Jax’s dark smile grows yet more wicked as he pivots slowly on one sneakered heel until he’s facing the hood of the Impala, arms spread out, muscles of his back flexing as they work to balance him and hold the pose.

 

The reaper grins at Dean, a smile that seems to echo its owner’s sentiments, like it knows exactly what’s on Dean’s mind as he looks at all that ink moving fluidly, the skin bunching and smoothing with Jax’s deliberate movements.

 

Dean wants to trace every line with his tongue, until Jax is shivering and begging beneath him, until his knees bruise on the bumper, hands burn on the sun-kissed hood.

 

Until he can’t say even Dean’s name, only swear and whine for what he wants.

 

“Fuck,” Dean swears, shifting himself in his jeans.  The zipper bites painfully into his hard cock, and he wants nothing more than a little relief.  He can’t have it, though, not yet. 

 

Not until Jax begs.

 

This could take awhile, which is why it had to wait until Dean’s knee was a hundred percent, or as close to it as it would ever come again.  Months of therapy, of working with Janet and Larry, neither of whom were the least bit sympathetic to the torture they were inflicting, neither of whom ever gave him an inch of space to breathe.

 

Months of being careful, of not overdoing it, of letting Jax take the lead on his bike and in the bedroom.

 

All of that ended today.  It’s not a bill Jax owes, but he’s going to pay it.

 

“What’s a matter, Dean?  Second thoughts?”  Jax’s voice invites only one response.

 

Dean shoves him with one splayed hand and barks, “Down.”

 

Jax goes, hands slapping the hood with a dull ringing sound, followed almost at once by a hiss as the heat of the metal sears through his palms.

 

Dean isn’t a sadist, but the sound makes him smile.  “What’s a matter, Jax?  Second thoughts?” he echoes, sidling up behind him to run a firm hand down the length of Jax’s spine.

 

Jax drops his head between his spread shoulders as Dean slips his fingers inside Jax’s waistband, curling them around the loose denim and tugging to expose the top of his crack.

 

Dean dips a finger in and Jax releases a hard breath, arms shaking a little now with the effort of holding the position.

 

Unrelenting, Dean kicks Jax’s legs apart, his boot making a harsh grating sound in the gravel under their feet.  They’re parked at the edge of a stone lot behind a building that had once housed a boat engine manufacturer.  Now, it’s a surplus warehouse for non-perishables, canned goods and dry sundries.  The usual guards are absent.

 

A pair of enormous sycamores cast the car’s dark shape into deep shade, dappled here and there by shifting spots of light that dance in a changing breeze.

 

One such spot makes lazy arcs across the back of Jax’s right hand, as it scrabbles for purchase on the hot metal hood, Dean driving a knee up between Jax’s legs and pressing against his lover’s sac.

 

“Fuck,” Jax breathes, voice low and rough.

 

From his pocket, Dean takes a familiar bottle, plunking it down with pointed force on the hood a few inches from Jax’s sweating face.

 

Jax groans.

 

Stepping back, slapping Jax on the side to let him know he can relax, Dean removes his jacket, undoes his belt, and hesitates with his hands at his tee-shirt hem.

 

Jax, who’s upright again but still turned away, watches Dean over his shoulder.

 

 

And because the same is true about Jax for Dean, Dean takes off the shirt, revealing the silvered, smooth mass of scars that writhe across the dead flesh of his chest like a nest of vipers, slithering down in ones and twos to make headway toward his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers.

 

Jax’s eyes take it all in, head craned around to look, and nothing of his hunger fades from his face.  He wants all of Dean, his eyes say.  Every part.

 

Dean breaks the moment with a thud as he props one boot against the bumper next to Jax’s thigh and starts to unlace.  He’s inches from Jax’s lower back, and he pauses in his work to trace the end of the Reaper’s scythe handle, following it with his tongue.

 

Jax shudders and swears but doesn’t move out of Dean’s range.

 

Kicking off the boot and peeling away his sock, Dean puts his foot down and repeats the process on the other side of Jax’s body, pausing again, this time to nip at the Reaper’s elbow.  Jax jumps and curses, says, “Dean,” in a needy, breathy kind of way, and Dean laughs, low and wicked, and lets his jeans hit the ground with a whoomph, enjoying the easy way he can step out of them and kick them away.

 

Jax is still wearing his jeans, but that’s no problem for Dean, who’s now free of the pressure of denim against his aching cock.  The air is cool on his overheated flesh, and he shivers with the sensation, enjoying the freedom of being completely naked in broad daylight under a blue, blue sky.

 

Enjoying, too, the quivering muscles that make the Reaper twitch beneath his seeking hand.

 

This time, both hands do the work of tracing the Reaper’s black lines, following them around Jax’s flanks to his chest, roving slowly down to his belly, the soft-wiry hair below his navel tickling his palms. 

 

Dean flattens one palm against the tight, flat planes of Jax’s abdomen, and slides it inside the loose waistband of his lover’s jeans, fingers prying up the edges of Jax’s boxers, sliding further down to wrap around the hot, hard flesh of Jax’s cock. 

 

The other hand is busy at Jax’s fly, undoing the button, sliding the zipper down one tooth at a time, a teasing, slow progress accompanied by filthy words breathed directly into Jax’s ear.

 

Jax’s head is bent, hanging loose on his neck, his breath coming in fast, thick pants as Dean works his hand over Jax’s cock, works the other around his waistband to shimmy the jeans down and then likewise slide the boxers off his hips, freeing his hand and Jax’s cock both, making the work of jacking him easier, though it doesn’t make Dean speed up the pace any.

 

With an ease he will never again take for granted, Dean balances on one foot and raises the other to shove the bunched boxers and jeans down to Jax’s ankles. Jax shifts like he’ll bend to take off his sneakers, and Dean says, “No,” a single, hard word that telegraphs his intentions.

 

“Fuck,” Jax curses, a host of meaning in that word, too, but he stops struggling, pliant again under Dean’s callused fingers.

 

One hand still roughing over the head of Jax’s cock, tightening down the length of him and then easing on the up-slide, Dean uses the other to press against the Reaper, encouraging Jax to bend again, arms wide, fingers splayed, thighs bunched and abdominal muscles working to keep from bumping the Impala’s hood and to give Dean room to keep up the hand work.

 

Dean laughs, removes his hand, says, “Nope, not gonna be that easy,” and reaches with the other to stroke a finger down Jax’s crack, pausing to rough around the edges of his hole and then sliding further along, fingers cupping his balls, feeling their liquid, muscular sliding as he plays with them, Jax shaking a little, shoulders tense with effort, head down, fogging the hood with a string of vicious curse words.

 

Eventually, Dean abandons Jax’s balls to tease the soft skin between his sac and his cock, a caress that brings Jax’s head up with a snap as he bites out “Fuck, Dean, Fuckfuckfuck,” and bucks his hips until his cock bumps the hood.

 

He hisses, startling backward, but Dean won’t give him any room, nudging his thighs hard up against the back of Jax’s, stroking two fingers over the soft skin, then sliding them up once more to the tight ring of muscle that tenses around the head of his first finger.

 

“Yes,” Jax says, letting the word out on a long exhale, as Dean shoves the finger in further, up to the second knuckle.

 

Jax’s elbows shake with the strain of keeping him bent over the hood.  He can’t rest his pelvis against the sharp chrome edge, has to lock his knees and push back against the intruding finger just to keep from driving his shins into the bumper.

 

Dean balances him there on the fulcrum of need and pain, withdrawing his finger only long enough to coat it with the contents of the bottle he brought for that purpose.  The sharp, clean bite of gun oil fills the air around them, and Jax curses himself breathless as Dean works his fingers inside, feeling the muscles stretch, feeling the jump of them as Dean reaches around and grips Jax’s cock at the base, growls, “Don’t come,” in a voice that makes Jax beg, finally, for release.

 

“Dean,” he says, and it’s a plea.  “Fuck, Dean.  Please.  Fuck.”

 

Without warning, Dean pulls his fingers out, ignoring Jax’s sound of protest as he wraps the slick digits around his own hard cock and strokes, the scent of Jax on his fingers, the smell of gun oil, home, making him weak-kneed, a wave of want rolling through him as he lines up, nudges with stuttering thrusts into Jax’s grasping hole, and then thrusts himself inside, driving Jax into the hood.

 

With a wordless shout, Jax bucks against the hood and then braces himself for another riving thrust, pushing back against Dean, who’s wrapped a hand around his lover and is tugging, rough and unrhythmically, on Jax’s cock.

 

There’s nothing easy about their fucking.  Hobbled by the jeans at his ankles and by Dean’s pressing weight, Jax has little room to push back, abdomen muscles jumping, shoulders strained with trying to gain purchase on the waxed metal.

 

Under Dean’s sweaty work, the Reaper weeps, saltwater beading between Jax’s shoulder blades, sluicing in thin rivulets down his ribs, around the knobs of his spine, pooling sticky and hot in the small of his back.

 

Jax’s knees begin to buckle as Dean changes the angle of his thrusts, and Jax shouts, knees barking the bumper, teeth clenched to keep in the animal sounds Dean tears out of him as he rides out Jax’s orgasm.

 

Blowing like a spent horse, head so low between his shoulders that his forehead almost brushes the metal, Jax is the picture of debauched surrender, and it’s that vulnerability—and the tiniest sound Jax makes as Dean bumps again against the now too-sensitive spot inside him—that brings him to the edge and drops him over it. 

 

Dean lets go of Jax’s flaccid, damp cock to wrap his hands around his lover’s hips and pull him back to meet him once and then again, Jax almost boneless beneath him as Dean comes, Jax’s name and words of love spurting from him in broken syllables while he spills inside of Jax, head thrown back, eyes on the leaf-strewn sky above, lights like fireflies in daytime drifting across his spotty vision.

 

It’s only when Jax makes a sound of weak protest and tries to shift beneath Dean’s dead weight that Dean peels apart their sticky skin and tries to stand, staggering a little, legs taking his weight as he gets used to being upright and breathing normally again.

 

Jax makes a clumsy turn to face Dean, hands to either side of his hips and braced against the hood as he leans there, still trying to catch his breath.

 

A strand of his long, dirty-blonde hair is caught in the sweat of his cheek.  His lips are red from his own biting, his eyes half-closed as he tries to slow his breathing. He’s got hood-burn like blown roses on his chest and angry red welts on both shins where they’d banged against the bumper.

 

Just above his hip, halfway to his navel on the left-hand side, is the unmistakable imprint of the Impala’s signature hood chrome where it comes to a graceful point in the center.  It arches like a swan’s neck, a two-inch temporary tattoo, marking what they’ve just done here.

 

When Jax at last manages to reach down to pull up his pants and then retrieve his tee-shirt to wipe the spooge from his stomach, Dean sees a drying snail’s trail of come on the hood.  The sight makes him take a deep breath, grinning like an idiot, something elemental in this, his lover joined with the Impala, the only home he’d ever had before he’d come here and been given a new one .

 

“I’ll drive,” Dean says when they’re both more or less together, Jax’s smirk back in place along with his cut, which hides the spooge stain on his shirt at least enough to avoid the looks they’re probably going to get anyway.

 

Dean’s words are an unnecessary declaration.  Besides Jax, driving her is the first thing Dean did after he’d been cleared for it.

 

“Aren’t you going to wipe that off?” Jax asks, pointing at the drying evidence of their love-making.  It looks like bird droppings, which Dean has never tolerated on his precious paint job.

 

But Dean just smiles, smug and self-satisfied, and takes a deep breath, saying, “Nope.”

 

Understanding, Jax snorts, settling deeper into the seat.  “Great,” he observes.  “I’m supposed to be king of the world, remember?  What do you think this’ll do for my reputation?”

 

Dean’s voice reflects the wide, wicked smile he’s wearing when he says, “Forget that.  What d’ya think it’ll do for mine?  I’m fucking the king of the world.”

 

“About time,” Jax answers, happy and laughing.

 

“Hell yeah,” Dean says.  It’s the closest he’ll come to _Amen_.

 


End file.
